— Do you have a tape measure anywhere? Or does this house only collect dust and cobwebs?Gleb didn’t even take off his sneakers. With wet, mud-caked soles, he stomped across the old oak parquet, leaving dark marks behind like tiny threats. Behind him, his mother floated in,
clutching her handbag as if she could catch “poverty” from the air.— Gleb, don’t be rude to your sister, — she said with that artificial sternness reserved only for outsiders. Then she turned to me. — Polina, we’re not here to drink tea. Sit down. We need to talk.
I stayed by the window. The coffee in my cup had long gone cold. Outside, the apple orchard lay in the rain, gray and still. For three years I had tended every tree, whitewashing the trunks, pruning the branches. I knew every bump in the ground, every crack in the bark.
— I prefer to stand, — I answered calmly.My mother sank into grandfather’s armchair. The wood protested with a creak.— The situation is serious. Sweta is having the baby in January. You can’t live in a one-room apartment with a child. Your father and I have calculated. This manor house is dead capital. You’re just putting money into it.
— And?Gleb grinned and pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.— We have a buyer. A solid man. He’s buying it for demolition — he only wants the land. Paying cash, a very good price. It’s enough for a three-bedroom apartment in the center. And there’s still some left for renovations.
For you too — maybe for a new car. Yours is a wreck.The porcelain clinked as I set the cup on the windowsill.— For demolition? — I asked softly. — You want to level grandmother’s house? The tiled stove? The library? The carved staircase?— Stop with this sentimentality! — my mother snapped.
— Rotten wood and nostalgia don’t pay bills. Your brother has a family. An heir. And you? You live alone in two hundred square meters. Why?— It’s my house. By will.Gleb’s expression hardened.— Wills can be contested. Grandma was confused in the end. A certificate of incapacity is easy to get.
Do you really want to go to court? With experts, procedures, dirt? We get what we need. Father has already spoken with a lawyer.Then I understood: they were not bluffing.— Give me a week, — I said after a pause. — I’ll pack my things.
The relief was immediate. My mother clapped almost enthusiastically.— See? I knew you were reasonable.They left. In the yard, I heard Gleb on the phone:“Okay. Push the price down. She agreed.”When the engine noise faded, only the rain remained.
I dialed a number I hadn’t touched for months. Konstantin. Restorer. Businessman. Cynic with a weakness for old houses. At an exhibition once he told me:“If you ever decide to sell this masterpiece — call me first. I won’t let it die.”The dial tone dragged endlessly.
— Yes? — his voice was rough.— Kostja. Polina here. Does your offer still stand?A brief silence.— Depends on the price.— The contract must be signed tomorrow. And no one can know you’re the buyer.He didn’t hesitate for a second.— Deal.
The week felt like a funeral. I packed photos, letters, my books. The furniture stayed — it belonged to the house. Every step through the rooms hurt, but I knew: this was the only way to save the house from my brother’s bulldozer.
On Friday, the family arrived in full force. Even Sweta, heavily pregnant, was already appraising the property.— Our buyer will be here in an hour, — my father said without greeting.— He won’t come, — I replied calmly.— Excuse me?! — Gleb stepped forward.
— The house has already been sold.Silence. Then chaos.— To whom? For how much? Where’s the money?— Sold three days ago. The money is in a locked account for five years. My retirement fund.Sweta started screaming. They had already made a down payment for the new apartment. I had ruined them.
— Those are your decisions, — I said, taking my bag. — The new owner is arriving soon. You should leave.Gleb tried to kick the door in. At that moment, a black SUV pulled up to the gate. Two security guards stepped out. Then Konstantin — in a dark coat, calm, almost bored.
— Is there a problem? — he asked.My family fell silent.— Private property. You have one minute.They backed off, spitting threats over their shoulders. I left the house that evening.The months in the city were quiet and harsh. No calls. No words. I only heard rumors:
Gleb had taken out a loan. The apartment was devouring money. They cursed me at every dinner.Konstantin contacted me occasionally.“The roof is new.”“The stove works again.”“The carved window frames are saved.”He never invited me. I never asked.
In May, a call came.— This is the administrator of the boutique hotel “Istok.” The owner invites you to the opening.When I stood at the gate, my breath caught. My house — reborn. Fresh facade. Restored ornaments. The garden in perfect green. The former shed turned into an elegant pavilion.
No longer a ruin. A jewel.Among the guests, I suddenly saw my father’s old car. The whole family got out. Unsure, out of place.— This is our house! — I heard Gleb yell at the guard. — Our sister has been cheated!Konstantin stepped forward. Tailored suit, cool composure.
— I am the owner. What exactly are you claiming?They screamed. Demands. Threats.Konstantin only smiled and brought a folder.— Notarized purchase contract. Assessment of the sellers’ business capacity. And a recording of your conversation with the demolition contractor.
If you don’t leave immediately, I will sue for defamation and attempted extortion.It was like the air was let out of a balloon. Gleb went pale. My father said nothing. They disappeared.— Satisfied with the performance? — Konstantin asked quietly beside me.
I turned. He held two glasses of red wine.— It was hard, — I said.— It was necessary.He looked at the house.— I need someone to give this place a soul. A manager. Someone who knows how to fire up the stove correctly and when the Antonovka apples are ripe.
I stayed silent.— Come back, Polina. Not as a guest. As the housekeeper. The rest… we’ll handle in time.The windows reflected the sunset. For a moment, I felt the house breathe.— We will prove ourselves, — I said.And I smiled. For the first time in a year, truly.
A month later, Gleb returned — he wanted to apply as a gardener. The guards silently escorted him out.I watched from the library.No triumph.No pity.Just silence.And the scent of Antonovka apples, finally mine again.
